


Axehole

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Assault, Fluff, Friendship, Multi, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22855747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Dani and Malcolm spend an evening after work axe throwing with strangers. Malcolm retells the encounter to the team the next day. Friends-fic.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Comments: 13
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

So. much. honking. Malcolm realizes they are traffic; they would have been better off taking the train.

“I let you pick anywhere, and you pick axe throwing. In Brooklyn,” Dani ribs him as they get stuck at another intersection.

“Tell me you haven’t been curious since the day I told you about it.” Excitement shoots through his fingers, decorating the car in glee.

“I have not.” But his reaction sure is amusing. She’s frustrated with the hold up, not the activity.

“If I knew, I would have brought my _axes_! And a change of clothes. You could have had your pick too!” he lists, running through all the possibilities.

“Of axes, or clothes?”

This pauses him, and a smile quirks her skin.

He picks right back up again. “You’re gonna have so much fun,” he promises. “I’ll teach you everything.”

“We’ll see.”

They’ve traded several spots going for drinks after work: people watching, games, adventuring. Sometimes someone goes home with her. Sometimes someone goes home with him. Every time, they share each other’s company; the comfort of friends.

* * *

His jacket and tie stay in the car, shirt cuffs roll up to his elbows. “Getting game ready,” she joshes, warmth hitting her t-shirt. At least his choice of activity is inside.

They get teamed with a group of strangers and brought to a free lane with wood slat targets. Dani narrowly survives a tutorial filled with axe puns. “If you keep getting bullseye, you’re badaxe!” their lane attendant explains. Eye-rolls reach double-digits when their teammates get name tags with pseudonyms from Axeccident to Axe Me Anything. Dani scribbles Lorax on her own and Silver on Malcolm’s when he doesn’t quickly come up with something. He sticks it on, smiling. “Funny.”

Several practice throws come before the first game starts, a cornhole variant, and Malcolm sets up to show Dani _everything_. “Take the axe in both hands like a baseball bat, but hold it in front of your face. Bring it back over your head - “ he pauses so she can see how far - “and release.” He lets go, hitting the bottom of the three.

“But like, in the bullseye, right?” she teases, exchanging places to take her turn.

Her first throw slips from the target. “Throw a little bit harder,” he advises.

She picks up the axe and moves to leave the lane. “You get to go again,” he reminds.

Her second throw fails to stick as well. “Next time.”

In between throws, they find themselves sitting on couches and getting to know the rest of their team. “This is surprisingly fun,” she admits.

“Better than the time you met parachute gal?” he references when he’d talked her into indoor skydiving.

“Better than the queasy, yes. Better than the sex, no,” she couldn’t resist adding, pinking his cheeks. He could stay so composed talking clinically, yet she managed to get him from time to time personally.

She tries two-handed, one-handed in a bid to throw like Malcolm, and quickly goes back to two-handed again. Dares him to hit certain targets, gets the team to go along with it. Even though she’s throwing terribly, she gets joy from seeing him so in his element.

She throws, the axe bouncing above the target and skidding back toward them. “You’re releasing too early,” Malcolm says between giggles hid behind his hand.

She’d give him a hard time for the laugh, but it’s such a rare, authentic sound jingling his frame. She retrieves the axe and returns to the couch, waiting for her next turn.

“You have an admirer,” Dani comments, tipping her beer toward the lane next to them.

Pink flushes his face. “What’s that, red dye number two?” she teases.

“Gonna hit the target this time?” he tosses back.

Next turn she overcorrects, the blade clipping the bottom of the target and falling to the ground. “Too late,” he coaches.

Turn after turn she dents the target and the axe drops, bounces off the handle, careens every which way until it _sticks_. “Two points!” he cheers, giving her double high fives above their heads before she slaps hands with the rest of the team.

The man in the next lane looks over again. “Go talk to him,” she encourages, taking a seat to mingle with the rest of the team.

He’s thrown moderately well, a smattering of threes, fours, and sixes when Malcolm had seen. Not that he’d been keeping track, or anything. He frequents the Prudential Center to watch the Devils play, is a regular participant in boot camp at Bryant Park. Works in finance at a large company.

Pieces of information, then back to throw. Chats with Dani, then drawn to the other lane. She’s having her own fun talking with one of their teammates.

Between games, he buys the next drink. Blues look to browns, tracing from smile lines up through cropped ochre hair, down his beard to his chin. Over his t-shirt muscled shoulders, across his chiseled flank. “Like what you see, pretty boy?” he calls Malcolm out. Malcolm pinks again - must be the alcohol.

It gives him an opening to lean in to Malcolm’s ear with a kiss and a request. And they end up in the hallway, making out in the darkness toward the reserved lanes.

Dani gives him shit for missing his first turn. “Scared we’re too much competition?” she teases, as they’ve begun a game of horse.

“Did you land?” he asks.

“Second time.” So she has an H.

“Great.”

“You?”

He hides his face to take his turn. It’s enough of an answer.

Dani yips when she hits a bullseye, immediately going to retrieve it, but Malcolm stops her. “Photo!” he demands.

She holds her hand on the axe and he takes the shot, her smile reaching her eyes. His phone disappears to reveal the same grin.

They play landmines, around the world, and call throws messing around until they run out of time. Sure, there were scores, yet she’s surprised by their biggest achievement: no one got beaned.

The axes go back, which leaves them with, “Air hockey,” Dani points at the tables near the bar. “Loser buys next round.”

She scores on him three times in quick succession, grinning how their roles have reversed. “Keep the striker closer to the goal,” Dani encourages.

“I know how to play air hockey,” Malcolm returns.

“Do you, though?” She banks off the edge and scores again.

“Come back a little bit,” lips whisper against his ear, hands directing his hips so he has better coverage of the goal.

He gets annihilated, yet eventually scores. They rotate off for the patrons who have next dibs.

They talk while Dani plays pool, the origins of eight-ball versus nine-ball, how could Malcolm possibly be bad at air hockey, how when he touches his waist he can see his reaction in his blues. When asked if they should get next game, Malcolm says, “If you think I’m bad at air hockey, you don’t wanna see me play pool.” They sneak back to the hallway, frolicking until Malcolm’s shirt pulls loose.

So when the hostess hollers “last call,” Malcolm goes for “my place?”, straightens his outfit, and they finish a final round chatting with the last of the group.

“I don’t need a ride home,” Malcolm tells Dani as they walk out. “Gonna take the train.”

“Have fun,” she teases with a smirk.

He walks Dani to her car and starts back with his date.


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm needs a different seat.

This is the same table where he chose not to electrocute himself. The one where he completed numerous profiles. Where they shared tea.

He needs tea.

He pushes to his feet, all sway and no muster, but Gil’s faster. “I’ve got it.” Gil hustles for the hot water dispenser and a scorching mug appears in his hands. He lets it burn and drops back into the seat.

Fingers flex open and closed, testing his limited range of motion. Nothing broken. But they fucking _hurt_.

“I wanted to talk to you. All of you,” he starts, yet the words disappear with his steam.

Around the table is a procession ticking down to his death, watching, waiting for when he’ll go under. Will it be weeks, or days? Peeling back layers of bruising painted into his face. Wondering if this is the last they’ll see him. Tracing his features like it is.

He’s at the head of the table, centerstage at an unwanted show. Eyes direct one place, glued spotlights standing by for the monologue, and he can’t breathe. He needs a different seat.

He springs to his feet, passing by “what do you need?” and sliding next to JT. Sturdy, protective, a wall between him and villains unseen. A moment to get a handle on why he can’t breathe.

Dani sits across from him, face drawn in charcoal’s shadow, heavy-handed around the eyes. She’s posed for the pen’s next direction, weighty emotion squeezed from every joint, yet pooling to a glisten of tears she refuses to let mar the work, and _fuck_ , he’s still in the wrong seat.

Upright again, he isn’t aware of concern bouncing around the room in a volley of _who can help him_? It’s too long to stand in a corner, too much effort and questions to slide to the floor where he might not get back up. Rounding the table, darting eyes don’t see anywhere he _can_ sit, and he falls in next to Dani. The thud into the pleather jostles his ribs, and they fucking hurt. Fuck - _everything_ hurts.

Digits tapping a wayward rhythm onto the edge of the table, discernible to all as S.O.S. - _help_. The hand she extends on her knee, fingers open to let his hand rest, but he can’t take it.

Gil disappears into the hall, returns with an offering he can squeeze. Rubber stretches and balloons under his fingertips, restlessness gradually dissipating into the flesh.

His eyes go to the center of the table, to the omnidirectional mic he knows is there. “I was mugged last night.”

He wants them to hear from him. Not some fucking report or playback of tape relegated to the bottom of an evidence box. Not second or third hand. First. Together. From him.

“We went axe throwing.” A tear nestles between his bottom lid and his eye. “Dani and me.”

Hours of teaching, laughing, and bonding over throws crushed under a madman’s seize.

“It’s a group thing. Freeform teams taking turns throwing in a lane.” A grip on facts to ease the reality. Another press in his fist, and maybe he could breathe.

“Was she shit? Or good?” JT interrupts, air escaping the room.

Gil gestures across his throat, warning him to cut it out.

But JT knows. “Shit,” Malcolm's voice cracks on the word, welcoming the relief. He takes a deep breath, his buttons holding him together a little tighter.

“I met a guy throwing on the lane next to us. We were chatting in between turns.” Drinking at the couches, necking against the wall that led back to a set of reserved lanes.

“I was into him. He was into me.” His head tips from side to side, articulating the halves. “When our lane time expired, we all got some more drinks.”

Played air hockey, Dani’s face glowing when she got to explain his technique was all wrong, having received his corrections all night. Watched while Dani played pool with someone they had met on their lane, reassuring that she was _way_ better off without a teammate. Leaned into lips and hands that kept finding him.

“We hit closing time. I saw Dani to her car, and he and I headed for the train.” With a detour in an alley several buildings down for kisses and touches that couldn’t wait.

“He wanted to…have sex in the alley. I reminded him I had a spacious loft, and that we had agreed to go there.”

Pacts that were broken in the heat of the July air.

“He pushed again. I think I said no. He stopped, but got angry - called me a tease - had his arm up under my throat.” Bashed and raged into his ribs, stunning Malcolm a perpetual moment until fear response to fight back kicked in.

“He’d gotten a few swings into my side when I shouted I was a cop.” Hollered bloody murder and pummeled until his knuckles weeped and cracked.

“He grabbed my wallet and took off.”

Dialed Dani and begged her to come back. _Please_ , come back.

“So I’m missing my credentials, ID, credit cards, some cash.” Footnotes for a report the value of his life far surpassed.

He looks up, and all around the table are those welling eyes waiting for him to die. He was _assaulted_ last night.

“I - I need a minute.” And with a rough swing of the door, he flees.

* * *

The roof isn’t his first choice, yet he can’t risk someone finding him on the stairs. He wedges into the corner, exit in view, ledge under his hands for his company.

He’s been hit before. Walloped by sparring partners and suspects, the kids on the playground. He’s not anxious over what was. He’s troubled with vivid variations of what could have been.

A frenetic night over his bar, pleasure lifting his toes from the floor. Fucking senseless until there’s only jello to strap in. Rare connection with another human.

Or the panic of what he may have endured if his training wasn’t enough. Crushed against the wall, only bricks an audience to his screaming, no way to call for backup.

The door opens. JT, who crouches near it. Doesn’t move, just lets him breathe. In - two - three - four. _Could he have a normal life experience without pain?_ Out - two - three - four. Until the palette fades.

“You don’t need to stay here. Not today,” JT assures he can run further than the roof if he wants.

He’d avoid tomorrow, and tomorrow, and - “It’s okay.”

Malcolm laughs, a melancholic crack wracking his frame. “I didn’t tell you his name.”

“Fuckin’ Asshole,” JT provides a pseudonym.

“Axehole!” Malcolm wheezes and tries to smile, but his glossy eyes give him away.

Silence returns, Malcolm collecting could have beens from the sky.

“When you’re ready, I’ll make you another tea,” JT reminds him there’s someone else there. In - two - three. _Why can’t he breathe?_ Out - two - three. “When you’re ready.”

* * *

_fin_


End file.
